Lost In Limbo

Standing there, watching the big screen, wide-eyed.

Bubbles sparkling in the glass of my cold hand.

Drinking so to do something, anything, to preoccupy myself and to ease the tension, the insurmountable knots in the pit of my stomach that I'm feeling.

Watching the men on screen, run and fall and jump and kick.

My heart beats increase by the second. I'm sure I'm having palpitations.

My free hand grasps at what's in front of me: it thrusts forward when my guys have the ball; it clutches at the air when they run for it, somehow hoping my unseen hand will help to make the incredible, the seemingly impossible happen.

I feel wheezy. Faint. Distant rings make their presence in my ears. I hold onto the adjoining shelf, other hand desperately clutching the now-flat bubbly. The champagne has lost it's purpose: it should be there as a celebratory sign, rather it's use is to numb the shattering shock of it all.

I crouch down. The sudden light-headedness is too much for me. I manage to lift my head to observe the screen, willing the team to fight forward, to make the dreams and hopes of so many thousands and thousands of followers become reality.

I can hear the blood of my heart, pounding in my ears. My breath is ragged. I chant quietly under my breath "Collingwood, Collingwood, Collingwood..."

I stand up. We scream, holler and yell at them. We pump our fists in the air with excitement, and then we stare in shock, bowing our heads and muttering under our breaths.

When the siren sounds, there are yells of incredulousness spreading around the room. Some laugh, some yell.

I stare, open-mouthed at the score.

68-68.

It's a draw.

And now, after all the hoping and the praying, the excitement and the despair, we must wait one whole week to see the Pies meet the Saints again, to settle the score.

Shoot me now.